Julian Alvarez (masstectonics) wrote in savingthegames, @ 2014-11-24 19:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | !plot: give...thanks?, edith olson, julian alvarez, tristan cadwalader |
Who: Julie, Eddie, Tristan
What: Thanksgiving this year has left a sour taste in Julian’s mouth. Literally. At least the company is good, even if he can't enjoy the food.
When: November 27, late afternoon
Where: Home of the Alvarez Patriarchs, Julian and Francesca’s two dads
Warnings: None
Status: Closed
The change had come over Julian while he was sitting at a traffic light on the way to his Baba’s house. Or at least, it was the first time that day that he had noticed that something was amiss since drinking a few sips of tap water with his pills and vitamins. With his mind on thoughts of the holiday and how he was looking forward to his sister’s and Baba’s cooking, Julian had reached for still piping-hot cup of coffee and had taken a big gulp, eyes focused on the red light. And almost immediately, that coffee had found its way splashed all over the dashboard and across the window, spat out in a comically loud and ingloriously widespread display. He started swearing up a storm as he wiped the steering wheel furiously with the sleeve of his jacket. It was like he had taken a gulp of pure pickle juice. Hot, fresh, caffeinated pickle juice. Why in the hell would his coffee be made to taste like pure pickle juice? For the rest of the ride to the house, Julian had entertained the idea that maybe his sister or one of his old Challenger friends had broken into his house and sabotaged his coffee maker as some kind of prank. And if that was the case, revenge had to be taken swiftly and mercilessly because you do not tamper with Julie’s coffee without consequences. But when he’d arrived at the house some time around mid-morning, it was clear from Frank’s mournful expression that it was not just him who had been mysteriously afflicted. His sister couldn’t taste anything. And Julian could taste nothing but pickles. He'd tried bread, fruit, soda, water - all pickles. Except for the pickles themselves tasted like... nothing. And it was all downhill from there. By late afternoon, Frank and Baba had bravely - or perhaps stubbornly was a better word for it - soldiered on with Thanksgiving preparations, even though she couldn't taste anything and their father had soap bubbles blowing out from his nose whenever he sneezed. Julian sat in the living across from Baba’s husband (who could now make his hair change color), trying to pay attention to the game, but he found that he had utterly no attention for it, scowling morosely as he tried to take small sips of water despite its persistent and off-putting flavor. It was as close as Julie ever got to outright pouting. He perked up ever so slightly as he heard two sets of footsteps from the entrance and someone’s voice calling out a greeting as the front door opened. |